Fic: Hiding in Plain Sight (1/5)
Title: Hiding in Plain Sight
Author: Gillian Taylor
Character/Pairing: Rose Tyler, Other Characters
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Doomsday
Beta: wendymr
Summary: There's no such thing as a quiet life when you're Defender of the Earth. But some things can still take your breath away
Disclaimer: Don't own them. I just like playing with them...a lot.
A/N: Thanks, as always, to the magnificent (and have I mentioned brilliant lately?) wendymr for BRing. This was written for the hearts_in_time "More than Friends" ficathon (thanks to measi for giving me an extension). Prompt will be shared at the end of this story to avoid spoilers.
Now an award winner!
"Hiding in Plain Sight"
By Gillian Taylor
Chapter 1: Fog
Sixty years he’s been out on these waters, and this is the first time Jacob Huxley has seen something like this. Fog is something he’s used to. Happens all the time, actually. Something with warm air and cold water. Or is it the other way around? Doesn’t matter, really. Same result, right? It gives you fog. Thick, white fog that changes the sea into something a bit more threatening. Is that dark shape a ship? Or a rock? Or something else? But he’s spent long enough along these shores that he could practically steer his little ship around blind-folded. There are no mysteries here. At least, there shouldn’t be.
This fog, however, is something different. It’s white. It’s thick. But it seems to practically crawl across the surface of the water. Impossible shapes appear and disappear within its grasp. It shouldn’t be frightening, but it is. He knows this sea. Knows this area. Knows this weather. Knows every denizen of these waters. But this fog-that-isn’t-fog terrifies him.
It’s like there’s something there. Hidden just behind the thickest part of the fog. Something dangerous.
His instincts have rarely led him wrong in all these years. He’s always got the best catches, even though he eschews the newer technology that the youngsters use. He doesn’t think his instincts are telling him wrong now. So he eases the door shut, sealing himself within the tiny cabin that houses the steering wheel, compass, radio and navigation equipment. Jacob turns back to the captain’s wheel and tries to start the engine.
The engine sputters to life. He doesn’t like that sound, but fishing doesn’t pay like it used to. It’s not easy for him to make all the repairs he needs. Turning the wheel, he tries to steer himself away from the fog.
The fog moves before he has the chance to. Where it was fifty metres away, now it is upon him. He’s surrounded. The engine coughs once, twice, and dies. Suddenly, the only sounds he can hear are the lapping of water against the ship’s hull, his harsh breathing and the thunder of his pulse in his ears.
The radio. Of course. He could try calling for help. He reaches for the radio, turning the knobs to the proper frequency. Wait. What is he doing? Calling for help when he’s surrounded by fog? Sure, the engine died, but he hasn’t tried turning it on again. Now that the coastguard's started charging, bloody disgrace that is, he can’t afford that.
Slowly, he returns the microphone to its handle. No reason to worry anyone. It’s just fog. Terrifying fog, maybe, but just fog. He redirects his hand to the ignition switch. The engine turns, but it doesn’t catch. He supposes that he could just use the little dinghy that he has on board - product of regulations more than his own desires - and leave the Destiny where she is until he can come back with some tools and, perhaps, some help.
No. He won’t leave his ship behind. He tries the ignition switch again. This time the engine doesn’t even turn. He has plenty of fuel. He knows he does. So why won’t the bloody thing turn on?
Muttering to himself, he turns back to the cabin door. The fog swirls outside, turning the familiar contours of his ship into something completely foreign. He doesn’t want to go out there, not really, but he knows he has to.
Jacob Huxley has never run from anything in his long life. This time, he wants to.
He opens the door and steps into the fog.
It feels like normal fog. A bit damp. A bit cold. But normal. He’s been out here too long, apparently. Thinking fog could be frightening. Shaking his head, he climbs down the ladder and makes his way to the bow of the ship. There’s a tiny hatch that leads to the engine. He should be able to -
There’s a humming noise. It seems to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. He can feel it vibrating his bones. He must be imagining it. Nothing out here but him and the water. Resolutely, he ignores the sound, kneeling beside the hatch to the engine compartment.
He’s about to open it when he feels something touch his face. There’s nothing there. Nothing at all. But he opens his mouth to say something anyway. Then he feels it inside his mouth, his throat. It’s crawling inside him, scaring him half to death.
Abandoning the hatch, he scrambles back to his feet and runs towards the cabin as fast as his old legs can take him. It’s still inside him, crawling inside his throat. The fog swirls around him and he thinks it’s trying to slow him down. But how could it? It’s fog. It’s damned fog. But it isn’t, is it?
The crawling feeling inside his throat is getting worse. The cabin is just feet away. Seconds, that’s all it should take. Then he’s there. Just inside the cabin. The door makes a satisfying clicking sound as it shuts behind him.
It’s like a switch has been flicked within his body. The crawling feeling is gone. The fog. It’s got to be the fog. He’s got to warn someone. There are towns along the Thames Estuary. What if that fog makes it to one of them? To Tilbury or Gravesend? What if it does something worse than it did to him? Sure, it gave him a fright, but he’s fine, right? Just fine.
Frowning, he reaches for the radio. Everything’s already set from earlier. All he has to do is key the microphone to talk. Pressing the appropriate button, he starts to call for help. “Mayday, mayday, mayday.” But no sound actually emerges from his mouth.
Rose doesn’t remember the sound of his voice.
How could she forget something as basic as that? The most important man in her life and she can’t even remember the sound of his voice. Either one, actually.
Her mum calls it moving on. She doesn’t know what she calls it. She just doesn’t like it. Used to be that all she had to do was close her eyes and ask herself what would the Doctor say about this or that and she’d be able to hear his voice. Not any more. The ideas are there. A bit of his babbling, too. But not his accent. Estuary, wasn’t it?
She just can’t remember.
It’s rather frightening, actually. So human, too. She can almost imagine him calling her a stupid ape. No. Not him. Him. Her first Doctor. She sighs and tries to force herself to pay attention to what she’s reading.
She’s got a job to do and moping isn’t part of it. She’s had enough moping to fill the rest of her life. He’s gone, she’s here, and that’s that. Moving on, right? Yeah. Moving on.
A folder lands with a loud thump in front of her, covering the paper she’d been trying to read. “What -?” she starts to ask, but the question is curbed the instant she sees the expression on Mickey’s face. “What’s wrong?” she asks instead.
“Trouble,” he replies. “Some sort of strange fog. Coastguard found a bloke just outside Gravesend harbour. He can’t talk.”
“Can’t or won’t?” she asks.
“That’s where we come in,” he replies. “Doctors can’t find a thing wrong with the bloke. He just can’t talk. When they gave him a piece of paper to write on, he told the doctors that some sort of fog crawled into his throat and stole his voice.”
She knows it’s not something simple. Can’t be. Not with Torchwood. Not with everything she’s seen. “Is he a nutter?”
Mickey shakes his head and nods at the folder he dropped onto her desk. “Not unless twenty Coastguard officers are nutters, too.”
“What?” she asks, now opening the folder to flip through the papers inside.
“Twenty-one people, all claiming that the fog stole their voices. There’s more than that, too.”
She pauses on the last page, staring at the projections.
“The fog’s coming here,” she says.
“Yeah. The fog’s heading right for London.”
He can't see the stars tonight. Then again, he rarely can. That's the problem with living so close to London. If the fog doesn't hide the stars, the light pollution certainly does. It's enough to make him wonder why he even bothers.
Then again, that's a good point. What's he doing looking up at the stars when he's so firmly grounded here? Two feet planted firmly on the ground, that's him. Might enjoy a look at the stars every once in a while, but doesn't everyone? They're something to look at. Something to wonder about. Something to dream about.
Listen to him. Meandering. Musing. There might be something to his sister going on about him being more of a novelist than a detective. No matter. Just finish his walk and that's it. Go back to the flat, maybe have a bit of dinner - provided his sister remembered that it was her turn to cook - and try to get some sleep. Early start tomorrow after all.
Maybe this time he'll sleep without the dreams. It's like his mind won't shut off when the rest of him does. He dreams of fire and ice and rage. Of the burning heart of a sun. Of a small child who turns away. Of something lost, but never, ever forgotten. They're too disjointed to make a coherent story though he does try every so often, writing in the journal his sister insists he use.
A siren's wail pierces the night, interrupting his thoughts. Torchwood. Must be. No police department that he knows of uses that particular pitch and tone. Question is what Britain's favourite alien-fighting group is doing here. It's not like Gravesend has much of an alien problem.
Curiosity has him both quickening his pace and changing his direction. Instead of heading to the flat, he moves towards the source of the sound. He thinks it might be somewhere near the docks. It might be a bit of a stretch, but Torchwood might need police assistance. If not, well, at least he can try to figure out what's happening and whether it'll endanger the civilian population.
He's not ready to deal with another Cyberman invasion. Hell, he isn't ready to deal with another war. The last one was more than enough for anyone to take. Especially him.
Reflexively, his jaw tightens as memories of a far worse time come to the forefront of his mind. Screams, shouts, fire, terror. These are his memories of the war. He knows he was in it. He knows he fought. He has the scars - both mental and physical - to prove it. No. He's not ready to even think about it, let alone experience, another war.
Dismissing that line of thought, he focuses instead on what's occurring around him. Ships of a variety of shapes and sizes line the docks, but there's only one that truly captures his attention. It looks like a Coastguard Emergency Towing Vessel. But that's odd. They're not based at Gravesend. More likely to see that sort of thing at Tilbury.
The breeze shifts direction, carrying with it the tang of diesel, fish, salt and something else. Every time he tries to focus on that one tantalising scent, it eludes him. Bit of a mystery, that. Could that be why Torchwood’s on the case? Strange scents and a Coastguard vessel aren’t something usually associated with each other, but with Torchwood one never knows.
The night is suddenly turned into a parody of day as high-powered lights are turned on around the docks. Most of the activity, now revealed under the harsh lighting, is around that same Coastguard vessel. Question is why. What’s attracted Torchwood’s attention?
There isn’t enough time to move closer to find out. Two people detach themselves from the shadows and block his path, causing him to curse his lack of attention. He should’ve known they were there a long time ago. He’s a trained detective, after all. But apparently he’s not good at detecting when he’s focusing on something else.
Damnit.
The two men study him carefully - assessing how much of a threat he might be, he supposes. Though they don’t appear to be armed, he’s not about to chance anything. With Torchwood - kind of them to identify themselves with those characteristic black fatigues and red beret - one never knew. There were, after all, a few alien weapons that couldn’t necessarily be seen by the naked eye.
"Identify yourself.” The voice is surprisingly young-sounding and it takes him a moment to see past the uniform to the youthful face. Babies. They’re posting babies out here as guards.
But these particular babies managed to get a jump on him. He’s got to allow for that at the very least. He doesn’t have to be happy about it.
"DI Smith," he replies. "Gravesend police. Do you lot need our assistance cleaning up?"
"Can I see your badge, sir?" At least they’re polite.
He can't blame them for wanting to check. Some people would say anything to get close to a Torchwood investigation. Well, he says it's Torchwood, but really that lot want to get closer to a certain Vitex heiress. Slowly reaching into his pocket - better to be safe than sorry - he pulls out his identification badge and hands it over.
"Looks authentic."
"I certainly hope so. Otherwise they've been lying to me for years," he retorts dryly.
“Torchwood can handle this matter, DI Smith. If we require police assistance, we’ll go through the usual channels.”
He’s about to argue with that logic when his attention is arrested by the flash of blonde hair. It shouldn’t capture his attention like this. Blonde hair is blonde hair, after all. But when said blonde hair belongs to the Vitex heiress, well, all bets are off. Apparently, he’s as susceptible as anyone else to one Rose Tyler.
“I am offering my assistance,” he adds, tearing his gaze away from Rose.
“Go on, DI Smith. We’ll contact your superiors if we do require your assistance,” the man repeats. “Have a good evening.”
He’s not going to learn anything this way. He knows this bloke’s type. Stubborn. Won’t let him in on the action at all. Fine, then. He’ll just be off. He’ll just look around after this lot are gone, see what he can learn.
“Good evening,” he echoes.
He’s already got his next course of action planned. All it’s going to take is time and the lack of certain observant Torchwood agents. Pulling his jacket closer around him, he turns and walks back into the night.
There are days where she wonders whether this life is nothing but a dream. If she wakes up, it’ll all be over, she’ll be back on the TARDIS, and none of this would’ve ever happened. It’s a nice dream, really. But then there are days where she knows this is the reality she has to live with from now on. All Torchwood and defending the Earth and being locked into a life that’s lived linearly.
Today, well, tonight, she thinks it’s some strange combination of both. She could’ve sworn that just over there, illuminated by the bright lights shining on the Coastguard ship and the fisherman’s vessel, she saw the Doctor. Not her latest Doctor, mind. Her first Doctor. All leather and Mancunian accent and big ears.
But that’s impossible. He’s long gone and she’s got a job to do. The Coastguard crew and their rescued victim have been taken to a Torchwood medical facility, so she’s mostly got these ships to herself. Well, herself and the forensics team.
There’s got to be an answer. Something to tell her just what happened here and why. That it’s alien isn’t even a question. Fog that steals voices? That’s a given. Absently, she rubs the back of her neck and sighs, trying to think things through.
“You look a bit like him when you do that.” She doesn’t have to ask just what ‘him’ Mickey’s talking about.
A wry smile comes to her face at the comparison. “Just without the babbling. What’ve you found out?” She turns to look at him, still somewhat startled by the differences between the Mickey he was and the one he is now.
While he still goes to the pubs and enjoys a good match every now and then, he’s not the same man any more. She supposes that’s the key. He’s a man now. He’s grown up. It’s good for him. For her, too, since he’s not waiting for her any more. She’s got no interest in picking up where they left off.
He’s not the only one who has grown up.
“The ship’s magnetised,” Mickey replies. “Not something you’d really notice unless you were actually on the ship, but it’s enough to make our science team jump for joy.”
“I doubt that’s why they’re jumping for joy,” she replies. “Magnetism isn’t exactly something that would make Dr Rainier bat an eyelid.”
“It is when the fibreglass shell of the ship’s magnetised.”
She blinks. “That’s impossible.”
“That’s why Dr Rainier is jumping for joy.”
Yeah, that’d definitely make Torchwood’s scientific advisor happy. The woman lives for that sort of thing. Let Dr Rainier worry about it. She’s got something else to worry about. “What’s the latest on the fog?”
“It’s still moving toward London,” Mickey replies. “I’ve called for an ornithopter to come pick us up. We should be able to take a look at the fog without getting touched by it. The ornithopter’ll be here in five.”
Perhaps it’s the illusion she’d seen earlier that has her reply with one word. “Fantastic.”
He should feel like a stalker, but he doesn't. Probably has something to do with the whole bit where Rose Tyler doesn't seem to have much privacy anywhere she goes. The tabloids all love her. One picture of Rose Tyler in something other than a suit is prized beyond all measure. Not that he's even bothered looking into that sort of thing. That bit of knowledge is all his sister's fault.
Bit of a failing, that. She loves reading about the celebrities and their love lives and all that nonsense and tends to prattle on about it to him. Like he actually cares about that sort of thing.
He does have to admit that there's something about Rose Tyler that intrigues him. Mysterious heiress, appearing seemingly out of nowhere one mid-autumn day. Sure, Pete Tyler and that lot went on about how she was living in the colonies, getting her education out of the limelight. And, yeah, there's a paper trail and a few people who swear up and down that they knew her in university. But that's something money could easily explain away. It's a mystery and there's nothing he likes more than mysteries.
A bright spotlight sweeps the neighbouring area and he has to step further back into the darkness cast by this old building to avoid being spotted. The question he really needs to ask himself is why is he here? It's not like Rose Tyler knows him from Adam. Nor is it that he even wants to introduce himself to her. He'd probably get tongue-tied. That'd be embarrassing. He doesn't do embarrassing.
She's talking to someone now. A young black man - Rickey Smith, isn't it? - is gesturing about something or other. They're close. Probably her boyfriend, he rationalises.
Shaking his head, he tries to focus. He'll be back to check out the Coastguard vessel, but for now, it's rather interesting to watch Rose and Rickey. There's something about them that seems off somehow, like they don't quite fit. Doesn't make sense.
Not like it matters, anyway. He's here to figure out what Torchwood's doing in his town. Not to worry about matters like who's Rose dating, why do she and Rickey seem not to belong or why he's even thinking about her. That's his sister's purview, not his.
There's a loud sound coming in from somewhere behind him and he doesn't have to turn to know it's an ornithopter angling in for a landing. Looks like they're just about finished with the Coastguard vessel.
Good. Gives him time to take a look around, see if he can figure out if Gravesend is in danger or not.
Decided, he leans against a wall and settles in to wait for Torchwood to leave.
Ten minutes later, she’s ready to be safely back on solid ground. She honestly forgot how much she hates this means of travel.
There’s no such thing as a smooth ornithopter ride. She swears that the vehicle bounces through the air rather than flies. But that’s the problem with its construction. Flapping wings belong on birds, not aircraft. She just can’t convince anyone who was born here of that.
“There!” Mickey says, pointing outside the window.
She leans past him, peering into the night. There’s enough reflected light from the city and from the onrnithopter's landing lights to see the fog. Though, now that she sees it, fog isn't the right term for it. It's more a cloud. A really large cloud that actually seems to be directing itself. A sentient cloud?
Well, she's seen stranger. Why not? The question is why is it taking-
Her thoughts are interrupted as the ornithopter's wings stall, causing them to drop sickeningly. For second, she's convinced they're about to crash. Thankfully, the pilots regain control as the wings begin to flap again. Moments later, the ornithopter is moving as steadily as it ever does.
"What happened?" she asks, prising her fingers free from their death grip on her seat's arm rests.
The pilot - one of the more experienced in Torchwood, actually - replies, "I don't know. If I didn't know better, I'd say we just travelled through a localised magnetic field that disrupted our avionics. But that's impossible."
Magnetised fibreglass. The memory suddenly pops to the forefront of her mind. The cloud. It has to be.
When she looks outside, trying to find the cloud again, she finds she doesn't have to. The cloud is here. Surrounding them. Blocking out the lights of the city. Fear stirs within her. She's never trusted this type of aircraft. What if their earlier experience is repeated and the cloud brings them down?
"Get us out of here," she commands uselessly. She knows the pilot's undoubtedly trying to do just that. But that's the problem when dealing with sentient clouds. They don't stay put. They follow you.
"The ornithopter's not air-tight," Mickey tells her quietly.
That means the cloud, fog, whatever can get in. Shit.
She reaches past the pilot for the radio's microphone. "Grand Central, this is Defender, over. Grand Central, this is Defender."
The only response is static. No help is coming from that end.
Fine. She can deal with this. "My name is Rose Tyler, representative of the Torchwood Institute. Who am I speaking to?" She doesn't know if the cloud can hear her, but maybe the sound will be transmitted through the skin of the ornithopter. Unless the cloud's already starting to come inside. Nor does she know if it can understand her, let alone respond, but it's worth the chance.
As if in response, the fog pours into the cabin of the ornithopter, wrapping around their bodies in a perverse parody of an embrace. Then she feels it. Like fingers dancing across her skin, moving up her torso towards her neck. There isn't anything she can do. She can't fight fog, much as she wishes she could. The sensation reaches her lips and somehow manages to reach inside.
Her pulse thunders in her ears. How is she supposed to be able to fight this? What can she do to stop this?
"We. Are." The voices come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. "Here." The most frightening thing about the voices is that she recognises one of them.
Her own.
When she tries to reply, she isn't surprised to find that she can't. Her voice is gone.
"You. Obey. Us."
She shakes her head. What the hell do they want? Why are they stealing voices? And why do 'us' - is that the royal 'us' or is it literal? - want her to obey? She reaches for Mickey, touching his shoulder.
When he turns his head, she finds something new to fear. Mickey's eyes, once a warm brown, are now white.
"Rose? I can't see. Rose? Can you hear me?"
What's the most heartbreaking about this entire incident isn't that she can't speak, it's that she can't comfort him. Because she doesn't know if the cloud's finished with them yet. First speech, then sight. What's next?
Hearing?
Or their lives?
***
Chapter 2: Questions and No Answers
x-posted to: dark_aegis, time_and_chips & hearts_in_time
Author: Gillian Taylor
Character/Pairing: Rose Tyler, Other Characters
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Doomsday
Beta: wendymr
Summary: There's no such thing as a quiet life when you're Defender of the Earth. But some things can still take your breath away
Disclaimer: Don't own them. I just like playing with them...a lot.
A/N: Thanks, as always, to the magnificent (and have I mentioned brilliant lately?) wendymr for BRing. This was written for the hearts_in_time "More than Friends" ficathon (thanks to measi for giving me an extension). Prompt will be shared at the end of this story to avoid spoilers.
Now an award winner!
"Hiding in Plain Sight"
By Gillian Taylor
Chapter 1: Fog
Sixty years he’s been out on these waters, and this is the first time Jacob Huxley has seen something like this. Fog is something he’s used to. Happens all the time, actually. Something with warm air and cold water. Or is it the other way around? Doesn’t matter, really. Same result, right? It gives you fog. Thick, white fog that changes the sea into something a bit more threatening. Is that dark shape a ship? Or a rock? Or something else? But he’s spent long enough along these shores that he could practically steer his little ship around blind-folded. There are no mysteries here. At least, there shouldn’t be.
This fog, however, is something different. It’s white. It’s thick. But it seems to practically crawl across the surface of the water. Impossible shapes appear and disappear within its grasp. It shouldn’t be frightening, but it is. He knows this sea. Knows this area. Knows this weather. Knows every denizen of these waters. But this fog-that-isn’t-fog terrifies him.
It’s like there’s something there. Hidden just behind the thickest part of the fog. Something dangerous.
His instincts have rarely led him wrong in all these years. He’s always got the best catches, even though he eschews the newer technology that the youngsters use. He doesn’t think his instincts are telling him wrong now. So he eases the door shut, sealing himself within the tiny cabin that houses the steering wheel, compass, radio and navigation equipment. Jacob turns back to the captain’s wheel and tries to start the engine.
The engine sputters to life. He doesn’t like that sound, but fishing doesn’t pay like it used to. It’s not easy for him to make all the repairs he needs. Turning the wheel, he tries to steer himself away from the fog.
The fog moves before he has the chance to. Where it was fifty metres away, now it is upon him. He’s surrounded. The engine coughs once, twice, and dies. Suddenly, the only sounds he can hear are the lapping of water against the ship’s hull, his harsh breathing and the thunder of his pulse in his ears.
The radio. Of course. He could try calling for help. He reaches for the radio, turning the knobs to the proper frequency. Wait. What is he doing? Calling for help when he’s surrounded by fog? Sure, the engine died, but he hasn’t tried turning it on again. Now that the coastguard's started charging, bloody disgrace that is, he can’t afford that.
Slowly, he returns the microphone to its handle. No reason to worry anyone. It’s just fog. Terrifying fog, maybe, but just fog. He redirects his hand to the ignition switch. The engine turns, but it doesn’t catch. He supposes that he could just use the little dinghy that he has on board - product of regulations more than his own desires - and leave the Destiny where she is until he can come back with some tools and, perhaps, some help.
No. He won’t leave his ship behind. He tries the ignition switch again. This time the engine doesn’t even turn. He has plenty of fuel. He knows he does. So why won’t the bloody thing turn on?
Muttering to himself, he turns back to the cabin door. The fog swirls outside, turning the familiar contours of his ship into something completely foreign. He doesn’t want to go out there, not really, but he knows he has to.
Jacob Huxley has never run from anything in his long life. This time, he wants to.
He opens the door and steps into the fog.
It feels like normal fog. A bit damp. A bit cold. But normal. He’s been out here too long, apparently. Thinking fog could be frightening. Shaking his head, he climbs down the ladder and makes his way to the bow of the ship. There’s a tiny hatch that leads to the engine. He should be able to -
There’s a humming noise. It seems to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. He can feel it vibrating his bones. He must be imagining it. Nothing out here but him and the water. Resolutely, he ignores the sound, kneeling beside the hatch to the engine compartment.
He’s about to open it when he feels something touch his face. There’s nothing there. Nothing at all. But he opens his mouth to say something anyway. Then he feels it inside his mouth, his throat. It’s crawling inside him, scaring him half to death.
Abandoning the hatch, he scrambles back to his feet and runs towards the cabin as fast as his old legs can take him. It’s still inside him, crawling inside his throat. The fog swirls around him and he thinks it’s trying to slow him down. But how could it? It’s fog. It’s damned fog. But it isn’t, is it?
The crawling feeling inside his throat is getting worse. The cabin is just feet away. Seconds, that’s all it should take. Then he’s there. Just inside the cabin. The door makes a satisfying clicking sound as it shuts behind him.
It’s like a switch has been flicked within his body. The crawling feeling is gone. The fog. It’s got to be the fog. He’s got to warn someone. There are towns along the Thames Estuary. What if that fog makes it to one of them? To Tilbury or Gravesend? What if it does something worse than it did to him? Sure, it gave him a fright, but he’s fine, right? Just fine.
Frowning, he reaches for the radio. Everything’s already set from earlier. All he has to do is key the microphone to talk. Pressing the appropriate button, he starts to call for help. “Mayday, mayday, mayday.” But no sound actually emerges from his mouth.
Rose doesn’t remember the sound of his voice.
How could she forget something as basic as that? The most important man in her life and she can’t even remember the sound of his voice. Either one, actually.
Her mum calls it moving on. She doesn’t know what she calls it. She just doesn’t like it. Used to be that all she had to do was close her eyes and ask herself what would the Doctor say about this or that and she’d be able to hear his voice. Not any more. The ideas are there. A bit of his babbling, too. But not his accent. Estuary, wasn’t it?
She just can’t remember.
It’s rather frightening, actually. So human, too. She can almost imagine him calling her a stupid ape. No. Not him. Him. Her first Doctor. She sighs and tries to force herself to pay attention to what she’s reading.
She’s got a job to do and moping isn’t part of it. She’s had enough moping to fill the rest of her life. He’s gone, she’s here, and that’s that. Moving on, right? Yeah. Moving on.
A folder lands with a loud thump in front of her, covering the paper she’d been trying to read. “What -?” she starts to ask, but the question is curbed the instant she sees the expression on Mickey’s face. “What’s wrong?” she asks instead.
“Trouble,” he replies. “Some sort of strange fog. Coastguard found a bloke just outside Gravesend harbour. He can’t talk.”
“Can’t or won’t?” she asks.
“That’s where we come in,” he replies. “Doctors can’t find a thing wrong with the bloke. He just can’t talk. When they gave him a piece of paper to write on, he told the doctors that some sort of fog crawled into his throat and stole his voice.”
She knows it’s not something simple. Can’t be. Not with Torchwood. Not with everything she’s seen. “Is he a nutter?”
Mickey shakes his head and nods at the folder he dropped onto her desk. “Not unless twenty Coastguard officers are nutters, too.”
“What?” she asks, now opening the folder to flip through the papers inside.
“Twenty-one people, all claiming that the fog stole their voices. There’s more than that, too.”
She pauses on the last page, staring at the projections.
“The fog’s coming here,” she says.
“Yeah. The fog’s heading right for London.”
He can't see the stars tonight. Then again, he rarely can. That's the problem with living so close to London. If the fog doesn't hide the stars, the light pollution certainly does. It's enough to make him wonder why he even bothers.
Then again, that's a good point. What's he doing looking up at the stars when he's so firmly grounded here? Two feet planted firmly on the ground, that's him. Might enjoy a look at the stars every once in a while, but doesn't everyone? They're something to look at. Something to wonder about. Something to dream about.
Listen to him. Meandering. Musing. There might be something to his sister going on about him being more of a novelist than a detective. No matter. Just finish his walk and that's it. Go back to the flat, maybe have a bit of dinner - provided his sister remembered that it was her turn to cook - and try to get some sleep. Early start tomorrow after all.
Maybe this time he'll sleep without the dreams. It's like his mind won't shut off when the rest of him does. He dreams of fire and ice and rage. Of the burning heart of a sun. Of a small child who turns away. Of something lost, but never, ever forgotten. They're too disjointed to make a coherent story though he does try every so often, writing in the journal his sister insists he use.
A siren's wail pierces the night, interrupting his thoughts. Torchwood. Must be. No police department that he knows of uses that particular pitch and tone. Question is what Britain's favourite alien-fighting group is doing here. It's not like Gravesend has much of an alien problem.
Curiosity has him both quickening his pace and changing his direction. Instead of heading to the flat, he moves towards the source of the sound. He thinks it might be somewhere near the docks. It might be a bit of a stretch, but Torchwood might need police assistance. If not, well, at least he can try to figure out what's happening and whether it'll endanger the civilian population.
He's not ready to deal with another Cyberman invasion. Hell, he isn't ready to deal with another war. The last one was more than enough for anyone to take. Especially him.
Reflexively, his jaw tightens as memories of a far worse time come to the forefront of his mind. Screams, shouts, fire, terror. These are his memories of the war. He knows he was in it. He knows he fought. He has the scars - both mental and physical - to prove it. No. He's not ready to even think about it, let alone experience, another war.
Dismissing that line of thought, he focuses instead on what's occurring around him. Ships of a variety of shapes and sizes line the docks, but there's only one that truly captures his attention. It looks like a Coastguard Emergency Towing Vessel. But that's odd. They're not based at Gravesend. More likely to see that sort of thing at Tilbury.
The breeze shifts direction, carrying with it the tang of diesel, fish, salt and something else. Every time he tries to focus on that one tantalising scent, it eludes him. Bit of a mystery, that. Could that be why Torchwood’s on the case? Strange scents and a Coastguard vessel aren’t something usually associated with each other, but with Torchwood one never knows.
The night is suddenly turned into a parody of day as high-powered lights are turned on around the docks. Most of the activity, now revealed under the harsh lighting, is around that same Coastguard vessel. Question is why. What’s attracted Torchwood’s attention?
There isn’t enough time to move closer to find out. Two people detach themselves from the shadows and block his path, causing him to curse his lack of attention. He should’ve known they were there a long time ago. He’s a trained detective, after all. But apparently he’s not good at detecting when he’s focusing on something else.
Damnit.
The two men study him carefully - assessing how much of a threat he might be, he supposes. Though they don’t appear to be armed, he’s not about to chance anything. With Torchwood - kind of them to identify themselves with those characteristic black fatigues and red beret - one never knew. There were, after all, a few alien weapons that couldn’t necessarily be seen by the naked eye.
"Identify yourself.” The voice is surprisingly young-sounding and it takes him a moment to see past the uniform to the youthful face. Babies. They’re posting babies out here as guards.
But these particular babies managed to get a jump on him. He’s got to allow for that at the very least. He doesn’t have to be happy about it.
"DI Smith," he replies. "Gravesend police. Do you lot need our assistance cleaning up?"
"Can I see your badge, sir?" At least they’re polite.
He can't blame them for wanting to check. Some people would say anything to get close to a Torchwood investigation. Well, he says it's Torchwood, but really that lot want to get closer to a certain Vitex heiress. Slowly reaching into his pocket - better to be safe than sorry - he pulls out his identification badge and hands it over.
"Looks authentic."
"I certainly hope so. Otherwise they've been lying to me for years," he retorts dryly.
“Torchwood can handle this matter, DI Smith. If we require police assistance, we’ll go through the usual channels.”
He’s about to argue with that logic when his attention is arrested by the flash of blonde hair. It shouldn’t capture his attention like this. Blonde hair is blonde hair, after all. But when said blonde hair belongs to the Vitex heiress, well, all bets are off. Apparently, he’s as susceptible as anyone else to one Rose Tyler.
“I am offering my assistance,” he adds, tearing his gaze away from Rose.
“Go on, DI Smith. We’ll contact your superiors if we do require your assistance,” the man repeats. “Have a good evening.”
He’s not going to learn anything this way. He knows this bloke’s type. Stubborn. Won’t let him in on the action at all. Fine, then. He’ll just be off. He’ll just look around after this lot are gone, see what he can learn.
“Good evening,” he echoes.
He’s already got his next course of action planned. All it’s going to take is time and the lack of certain observant Torchwood agents. Pulling his jacket closer around him, he turns and walks back into the night.
There are days where she wonders whether this life is nothing but a dream. If she wakes up, it’ll all be over, she’ll be back on the TARDIS, and none of this would’ve ever happened. It’s a nice dream, really. But then there are days where she knows this is the reality she has to live with from now on. All Torchwood and defending the Earth and being locked into a life that’s lived linearly.
Today, well, tonight, she thinks it’s some strange combination of both. She could’ve sworn that just over there, illuminated by the bright lights shining on the Coastguard ship and the fisherman’s vessel, she saw the Doctor. Not her latest Doctor, mind. Her first Doctor. All leather and Mancunian accent and big ears.
But that’s impossible. He’s long gone and she’s got a job to do. The Coastguard crew and their rescued victim have been taken to a Torchwood medical facility, so she’s mostly got these ships to herself. Well, herself and the forensics team.
There’s got to be an answer. Something to tell her just what happened here and why. That it’s alien isn’t even a question. Fog that steals voices? That’s a given. Absently, she rubs the back of her neck and sighs, trying to think things through.
“You look a bit like him when you do that.” She doesn’t have to ask just what ‘him’ Mickey’s talking about.
A wry smile comes to her face at the comparison. “Just without the babbling. What’ve you found out?” She turns to look at him, still somewhat startled by the differences between the Mickey he was and the one he is now.
While he still goes to the pubs and enjoys a good match every now and then, he’s not the same man any more. She supposes that’s the key. He’s a man now. He’s grown up. It’s good for him. For her, too, since he’s not waiting for her any more. She’s got no interest in picking up where they left off.
He’s not the only one who has grown up.
“The ship’s magnetised,” Mickey replies. “Not something you’d really notice unless you were actually on the ship, but it’s enough to make our science team jump for joy.”
“I doubt that’s why they’re jumping for joy,” she replies. “Magnetism isn’t exactly something that would make Dr Rainier bat an eyelid.”
“It is when the fibreglass shell of the ship’s magnetised.”
She blinks. “That’s impossible.”
“That’s why Dr Rainier is jumping for joy.”
Yeah, that’d definitely make Torchwood’s scientific advisor happy. The woman lives for that sort of thing. Let Dr Rainier worry about it. She’s got something else to worry about. “What’s the latest on the fog?”
“It’s still moving toward London,” Mickey replies. “I’ve called for an ornithopter to come pick us up. We should be able to take a look at the fog without getting touched by it. The ornithopter’ll be here in five.”
Perhaps it’s the illusion she’d seen earlier that has her reply with one word. “Fantastic.”
He should feel like a stalker, but he doesn't. Probably has something to do with the whole bit where Rose Tyler doesn't seem to have much privacy anywhere she goes. The tabloids all love her. One picture of Rose Tyler in something other than a suit is prized beyond all measure. Not that he's even bothered looking into that sort of thing. That bit of knowledge is all his sister's fault.
Bit of a failing, that. She loves reading about the celebrities and their love lives and all that nonsense and tends to prattle on about it to him. Like he actually cares about that sort of thing.
He does have to admit that there's something about Rose Tyler that intrigues him. Mysterious heiress, appearing seemingly out of nowhere one mid-autumn day. Sure, Pete Tyler and that lot went on about how she was living in the colonies, getting her education out of the limelight. And, yeah, there's a paper trail and a few people who swear up and down that they knew her in university. But that's something money could easily explain away. It's a mystery and there's nothing he likes more than mysteries.
A bright spotlight sweeps the neighbouring area and he has to step further back into the darkness cast by this old building to avoid being spotted. The question he really needs to ask himself is why is he here? It's not like Rose Tyler knows him from Adam. Nor is it that he even wants to introduce himself to her. He'd probably get tongue-tied. That'd be embarrassing. He doesn't do embarrassing.
She's talking to someone now. A young black man - Rickey Smith, isn't it? - is gesturing about something or other. They're close. Probably her boyfriend, he rationalises.
Shaking his head, he tries to focus. He'll be back to check out the Coastguard vessel, but for now, it's rather interesting to watch Rose and Rickey. There's something about them that seems off somehow, like they don't quite fit. Doesn't make sense.
Not like it matters, anyway. He's here to figure out what Torchwood's doing in his town. Not to worry about matters like who's Rose dating, why do she and Rickey seem not to belong or why he's even thinking about her. That's his sister's purview, not his.
There's a loud sound coming in from somewhere behind him and he doesn't have to turn to know it's an ornithopter angling in for a landing. Looks like they're just about finished with the Coastguard vessel.
Good. Gives him time to take a look around, see if he can figure out if Gravesend is in danger or not.
Decided, he leans against a wall and settles in to wait for Torchwood to leave.
Ten minutes later, she’s ready to be safely back on solid ground. She honestly forgot how much she hates this means of travel.
There’s no such thing as a smooth ornithopter ride. She swears that the vehicle bounces through the air rather than flies. But that’s the problem with its construction. Flapping wings belong on birds, not aircraft. She just can’t convince anyone who was born here of that.
“There!” Mickey says, pointing outside the window.
She leans past him, peering into the night. There’s enough reflected light from the city and from the onrnithopter's landing lights to see the fog. Though, now that she sees it, fog isn't the right term for it. It's more a cloud. A really large cloud that actually seems to be directing itself. A sentient cloud?
Well, she's seen stranger. Why not? The question is why is it taking-
Her thoughts are interrupted as the ornithopter's wings stall, causing them to drop sickeningly. For second, she's convinced they're about to crash. Thankfully, the pilots regain control as the wings begin to flap again. Moments later, the ornithopter is moving as steadily as it ever does.
"What happened?" she asks, prising her fingers free from their death grip on her seat's arm rests.
The pilot - one of the more experienced in Torchwood, actually - replies, "I don't know. If I didn't know better, I'd say we just travelled through a localised magnetic field that disrupted our avionics. But that's impossible."
Magnetised fibreglass. The memory suddenly pops to the forefront of her mind. The cloud. It has to be.
When she looks outside, trying to find the cloud again, she finds she doesn't have to. The cloud is here. Surrounding them. Blocking out the lights of the city. Fear stirs within her. She's never trusted this type of aircraft. What if their earlier experience is repeated and the cloud brings them down?
"Get us out of here," she commands uselessly. She knows the pilot's undoubtedly trying to do just that. But that's the problem when dealing with sentient clouds. They don't stay put. They follow you.
"The ornithopter's not air-tight," Mickey tells her quietly.
That means the cloud, fog, whatever can get in. Shit.
She reaches past the pilot for the radio's microphone. "Grand Central, this is Defender, over. Grand Central, this is Defender."
The only response is static. No help is coming from that end.
Fine. She can deal with this. "My name is Rose Tyler, representative of the Torchwood Institute. Who am I speaking to?" She doesn't know if the cloud can hear her, but maybe the sound will be transmitted through the skin of the ornithopter. Unless the cloud's already starting to come inside. Nor does she know if it can understand her, let alone respond, but it's worth the chance.
As if in response, the fog pours into the cabin of the ornithopter, wrapping around their bodies in a perverse parody of an embrace. Then she feels it. Like fingers dancing across her skin, moving up her torso towards her neck. There isn't anything she can do. She can't fight fog, much as she wishes she could. The sensation reaches her lips and somehow manages to reach inside.
Her pulse thunders in her ears. How is she supposed to be able to fight this? What can she do to stop this?
"We. Are." The voices come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. "Here." The most frightening thing about the voices is that she recognises one of them.
Her own.
When she tries to reply, she isn't surprised to find that she can't. Her voice is gone.
"You. Obey. Us."
She shakes her head. What the hell do they want? Why are they stealing voices? And why do 'us' - is that the royal 'us' or is it literal? - want her to obey? She reaches for Mickey, touching his shoulder.
When he turns his head, she finds something new to fear. Mickey's eyes, once a warm brown, are now white.
"Rose? I can't see. Rose? Can you hear me?"
What's the most heartbreaking about this entire incident isn't that she can't speak, it's that she can't comfort him. Because she doesn't know if the cloud's finished with them yet. First speech, then sight. What's next?
Hearing?
Or their lives?
***
Chapter 2: Questions and No Answers
x-posted to: dark_aegis, time_and_chips & hearts_in_time